


Just Assassin Things

by PurpleMoon3



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Crack, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, It is called a leap of Faith, Not a Leap of Careful Consideration, Prompt Fill, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Formerly a one shot about Altaïr kidnapping Bucky with the Apple, now a designated bunny dump for Assassin's Creed stuff.
Relationships: Altaïr/Apple
Comments: 101
Kudos: 240





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Altaïr is such a Dom that even the Apple (Juno) submits, and the Timeline can go cry in a corner. If the Asset wasn't trained and conditioned to be the Asset he might have objected to being kidnapped, but he was, so he didn't.

Altaïr walked through the decrepit building, the faint glow of his own intangible self more than enough to see in the darkness. He didn't bother to hide the vaguely disgusted sneer on his face. None of the inhabitants could see him, anyway. He wasn't present in the physical sense of the world. No, his body was currently resting in his study in Masyaf. After a long day of training, reports, and crafting his new armor -it was difficult replicating the treatment process he'd seen with his own limited means- sitting down for a evening with the Apple was a relief ~~addiction~~.  
  
At first the artifact had been like a temptress, showing him all the nations of the world at his feet and his brothers uncowled and proud as they guided the people. That then, must have been the trap Rashid had fallen for. But what need had Altaïr for the world when he had enough difficulties keeping his home together. With the cause of his demotion still fresh in the minds of his brothers the transition of power had not been smooth, but the sting of their Mentor's sorcery was stronger and much more visceral, personal, to all.  
  
He'd released several brothers from their duties so that they might undertake pilgrimages to soothe their souls.

Though there was one soul that kept intruding on Altaïr's, and that was the reason for the night's explorations. Altaïr planned to leave leadership of the Brotherhood in Malik's hands while he was gone on his own self-appointed missions. He could think of no other with a mind and spirit more suited to the task, and who knew Altaïr's own thoughts even better than Altaïr himself. At times the fact was beyond frustrating. However; Altaïr knew that the other Assassins would not see Malik in the same way.  
  
The Dai of Jerusalem had lost a brother and an arm. Running a bureau of informants, yes, but running the Brotherhood? Not everyone thought like that, of course, especially as Malik still regularly put novices through their paces in the training ring... but there were enough. Though necessary, Altaïr's precedent of replacing the previous Mentor through _combat_ and _murder_ wasn't exactly a good one.  
  
Altaïr could not give Malik back Kadar, that was beyond even the Apple's power -though sometimes it hinted, somewhat desperately Altaïr thought, that if he just followed the map there was something that _could_ \- but he could give him back his arm. Or a facsimile of it, at least. Better, mayhaps.  
  
Such was how Altaïr came to be walking through some other time and place, following the trail his Vision sought out, looking for the knowledge that would allow him to create Malik something _better_. He soon found scholars in traditional white robes, though the cut was as strange as everything else in the place. He passed men in uniforms, though the design was of no country he knew and bore little to no visible armor. As usual, none reacted to him following their footsteps if not their conversation. Though Altaïr spoke his mother's tongue and enough of the crusader's French to understand and be understood he did not know what language passed between the people.  
  
Eventually, they came to a large open room, and set into the far side was a chair with thick black cords extending from it. There was a man bound to the chair. His left arm was clad in plate, no, it _was_ plate. Altaïr moved through the crowd of soldiers and scholars as he would any other group, silent and unseen, and approached the bound man. He looked... poorly. He wore little, the cloth of his clothes thin, and shivered even as he sweat. Fever? He didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular and there was something not quite like a gag in his mouth. More like a horse's bit.  
  
Altaïr frowned. There was something that _bothered_ him about the bound man, but he couldn't quite place it. Altaïr leaned over and ran ghostly golden fingers down the junction where flesh became metal. There was old scarring, suggesting that the job had been botched in the past. Or had been done with less sophisticated methods that improved with time. Repeated surgeries.  
  
The current limb was very well done. Altaïr doubted he could get a knife between the joints, checked for weak spots with his vision, and confirmed that doubt. For all that these people didn't seem to care about the building, or their people, they certainly took time to maintain the man's arm. He would need a closer study, he needed to get somewhere with the designs or open it up and see the how...  
  
Altaïr dodged back in instinct as the man suddenly jerked, screaming, his whole body convulsing as _lightning_ coursed through him. The Assassin glanced around, eyes flashing with insight, and spotted the hulking generator that hadn't been half as well maintained as the arm. A scholar seemed to be counting, and after reaching his appointed number pulled a lever back down to stop the flow of energy. Behind him, the bound man quieted, though the harsh breathing that made it past the bit was animal like.  
  
Torture? What was the point? An interrogation was useless if the person couldn't speak.  
  
The scholar at the switch pushed it back up, and the man screamed once more.  
  
Smugly, the Apple answered, the theory unfolding in Altaïr's mind like an invitation. The same offer that had driven Al Mualim into madness and betrayal. Mind Control. Unquestioning Obedience.  
  
Wouldn't it be easier if people stopped fighting him? He could leave them with orders to listen to Malik, instead of this time-consuming journey that may not even _work_ , and the Apple was so much _gentler_. Kind, even.  
  
Disgusted, Altaïr turned, nearly cutting the connection right then, only there was a word one of the soldiers spoke that despite the mangling of time and tongue was unmistakable. His head whipped around to the speaker, bored sneer on a uniformed man as he gestured to the bound man. Someone handed him a book, and he stepped closer and began to recite words as their prisoner repeated something that Altaïr understood even with the muffling of the bit.  
  
_”No, no, no, no...”_  
  
Was the bound man an Assassin? Does their order survive so long into the future, only to become trapped in mental chains once again?  
  
Were they betrayed again?  
  
“No.” Altaïr declared, and the Apple pulsed in alarm as his grip on it in his study became iron. In the other place his spirit self walked forward with purpose, and his flesh self grew weak. The man with the spell book stopped talking, weapons were drawn, and the tired eyes peered up through a cage of sweat heavy hair. He hadn't heard any Arabic, but they were mostly pale sorts, so Altaïr went with his mother's language. Hopefully it hadn't changed too much in the centuries. “Greetings, brother. Do you remember your Creed?”  
  
The possible brother just blinked confusedly as his captors shouted nonsense.  
  
“Right. The bit. You cannot answer. I haven't tried this before but... let me...” Altaïr reached out, and the man jerked back with wide, wide eyes as a glowing golden hand rested on his head. Light, power built between them and then _exploded_ in a riot of color that burned shadows into gray, cold walls.  
  
Meanwhile, back in Altaïr's study, Malik stared down at his idiot and the strange new person on the floor. One looked ill. The other looked dead. Malik could not decide which was which, but knew that even dead Altaïr would be giving Assassins headaches for generations to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at stupid o'clock in the morning like a year or so ago. I was hoping the muse would come back and add to it, but other than a few vague ideas of Bucky getting comfortable with the Brotherhood, Altaïr designing a new arm for Malik, and in the far future of 2012 Desmond finds a failing cryochamber (something something box of apples in a cave) under the Auditore Villa and wakes up a cranky Winter Soldier. Who keeps mistaking Desmond for his Handler (Altaïr) but to be fair Desmond also keeps mistaking Desmond for Altaïr. Darn that Bleeding Effect.


	2. Soldier, Poet, King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond has spent more time in the Animus than any other living Subject. The consequences of this is more severe than Expected.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by The Oh Hellos. Just some cherry darkness as depressed!Desmond lets his ancestors run around in his body. It's only fair, right? He spent so much time in theirs... and honestly I wanted more immediate family feels.

“Des-”

His blade sank home, and crimson bloomed across her belly. And it was _his_ blade, one thought long lost, even as her pale yellow hair darkened into deep gold and the face that stared with increasing paleness blurred from Lucy Stillman into Lucrezia Borgia. But he'd never killed Lucrezia. The woman had been no innocent, but her father's and brother's sins were not her own, and as far as he knew with her Templar kin dead she'd dedicated her years to her husband and his family.

“...mond...”

The moment passed. The proper woman wheezed, the last of her life escaping into the ether, and as he carried her to the floor the world faded into the familiar Gray. She lay dead at his feet. She also stood, whole and frightened beyond measure as their souls were bared before one another.

“What's going on? Desmond?” Her eyes were the sky before a storm broke, demanding, darting between them with the speed of lightning. “Desmond!?”

“You're a Templar, Lucy.” His son was mulish, hands tucked into the pockets of his strange doublet, not quite looking at the specter of his would-be lover. “I don't really know what else you were expecting. Isn't this what you wanted?”

“What are you talking about? You, you're just tired, Desmond. A break from the Animus will do us all good, I think. Get you centered-”

“Silence, woman, and go with dignity.” Altaïr manifested, voice a low growl as he wrapped strong arms around his fellow Novice. That was a curious thought, for the Founder to be a Novice, but he couldn't be much older than Desmond. He was less present than either Ezio or Desmond, too, a cold burning fire that flared up on occasion. Desmond hadn't lived years as Altaïr. Hadn't experienced his joys alongside his sorrows.

Only the bile of betrayal. Of failure.

But then, they hadn't wanted to turn his son into Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. They had wanted Ezio Auditore.

Why else arm him with the very weapon that Ezio had worn in his own father's memory? Why else bring him to Monteriggioni, into the heart of the Assassin Sanctuary, and cut him off from all other ties? Perhaps they had reasons. Perhaps. He did not pretend to know _how_ the Animus worked, or what the state of the Brotherhood was now.

But all he could do, all any of them could do, was act on what they saw with their own eyes.

“Were you meant to be Scylla or Charybdis?” Ezio asked the corpse at his feet.

Lucy Stillman's shade gasped, Altaïr sneering at her fading form, and with the familiar benediction three became one and Ezio gently closed her eyes. He walked over to the device that had fallen from her hands when he'd come upon her. A slab of glass and metal and magic that did many things, small enough to fit in the hand, and very similar to the one that had been given to his son.

Unlike his son's, this one had _bars_. It was _communicating_ , with a blinking line showing a letter interrupted.

Grief not his own caught in his throat, wet his eyes, and Ezio wished more than anything he'd taken the opportunity presented by that other-place to hug his son.

“ _You are not alone, Desmond.”_ He whispered the words, set the proof of her infidelity on her chest, and flexed his hands. His son's body was taller than he was used to, but there was a strange sense of knowing that came with it. What had the traitor told them? To learn everything as Ezio had learned it, the way he did?

Morning was still a few hours off. Ezio looked out on a Monteriggioni not his own, and gave a wistful smile as the streets were filled with ghosts. Ezio began the climb down from the Villa, two toned nostalgia filling his heart like a fluttering bird.

“ _Where do you want to go, descendant mine?”_ Ezio asked as he hit the ground. Desmond did not answer in words, there was risk in swapping their positions if the young man became too assertive, but there was an uncaring, sad little sentiment that came through easily enough. Ezio sighed, passing a parked _car_ and considering. _“You always have a choice.”_

Desmond didn't have much opinion. He was not well traveled, his being in Italy itself had been forced, and his thoughts spiraled down dark alleys filled with a fear of discovery that had been drilled into him seemingly since birth. It made Altaïr wake up, made their teeth ache and fingers twitch, and Ezio made the executive decision to go somewhere new.

Ezio Auditore had become an Assassin for revenge. He'd stayed an Assassin to keep his family safe. It was not a life he would have ever wanted for his descendants.

So he thought nothing of leaving a Templar to be found by the present day Brotherhood, or sitting back in what felt like a dream as his new son carefully split and touched wires and brought a roaring beast of a machine to life. He learned to drive it in fits, laughing, as another fatherless child watched curiously behind their shared eyes.

It was only fair.

And Ezio wanted to see the unsightly Tower that had been built in France.


	3. Sufficiently Advanced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is more of a thought experiment. Basically, what if the events of The Dresden Files took place in the early Isu era? In which we make all Wizards Isu or Isu hybrids. Harry _does_ have that line where he'll let the world burn if it means he and his kid can roast marshmallows on the ashes.

The Temple in Turin was big. Vast. Some might even call it Grand it was so sprawling. It was also Old, however, older than almost anything else on the planet and hadn't seen repairs in just as long. Large portions, most of it according to Rebecca and Shaun's estimates, was blocked off by cave-ins or collapsed walkways. That didn't matter to Desmond, though, after what felt like the thousandth's argument with his father and the unceasing whispers of a dead goddess.

He had the skills and memories of the ancestors' running through him whether he wanted them or not, and a childish cant running through the back of his mind: _can't go under it, can't go over it, oh no gotta go through it..._ He clung to rubble the color of night and wriggled through like a worm, weeks of stress and lost weight letting him through the narrow spaces. As he emerged into a long abandoned hallway he could hear some of the broken stone break he'd crawled through shift and tumble into the abyss, but nothing else.

It was quiet. 

Blessedly quiet. 

The floor didn't hum with sleeping power, the clacking of computer keys wasn't giving him time-vertigo, and he couldn't see those wisps of movement out of the corner of his eyes that were only sometimes real. Desmond took a moment to catch his breath, back pressing to the cold, dead stone, before taking a glow stick from his back pocket and snapping it with a pop. Soft, gentle light filled the hall. He held it above his head as he walked, revealing some empty, some not so empty rooms. 

Most had pedestals more or less like the one they were trying to access, or were filled with pillars that reminded him of the Vault beneath the Vatican. Projection chambers, maybe? The Isu equivalent of computer rooms? Desmond wasn't sure, and with whatever power source kept the main chamber alive obviously not reaching this area he couldn't find out. Some of the rooms were more interesting. Storage, probably, ancient file rooms. A short, table like slab of stone had several artifacts on it but none had the artistry and life that a piece of Eden shone with. 

Desmond picked up a short sword -a gladius?- that was lighter than it had any right to be. He wiped the gathered dust off by running it along his sleeve. It felt  _right_ in his hand. Or, at least, someone's hand. With a long exhale he put it back, moving along the display to a palm sized circle of silver, broken, pieces missing. 

Jupiter had said they tried multiple methods for shielding the world before settling on the Eye. The Grand Temple was their base of operations. Were these parts of those abandoned projects? Was anything  _useful?_

Desmond blinked, summoning his ancestor's Second Sight, and smothered the sting of disappointment when the room remained as dead and colorless as it had been for the past seventy five thousandish years. The sword might have been a  _bit_ brighter, but that was more an echo of what was instead of what is. He could imagine it wreathed in cold fire. But a flaming sword wasn't going to help when the sky itself was burning.

Desmond turned away from the table, headed back for the hall, and nearly missed the sliver of  _white._ Safety. Not importance.  _Safety._ Shelter. It wasn't a color he saw often in his own time. Except for the few exceptions he found while in Monteriggioni people didn't usually leave piles of loose straw around for Assassin's to hide in.

He doubted the Isu were in the habit of decorating with it, either.

Still, it wasn't in  _this_ room. Desmond wondered. What would be safe for  _him?_

Desmond double checked the perimeter of the room to be sure there weren't any secret passages, found none, and headed back to the hallway while keeping an eye on the white. He jogged along, passing several boring chambers, before coming to a branch in the hallways. He went left, hoping it would loop back toward where he had started. It did. The sliver of white grew, and as Desmond slowed he was struck by the size of it, the differences in everything he'd seen from Those Who Came Before and the box sitting half covered by a tarp in what had obviously been some sort of work room. 

Broken blades and drills and more exotic, nameless tools littered the area. A thin slab covered in Isu language sat nearby. The box, the exposed portion at least, was covered in scuff marks from the attempts to break in but nothing had, apparently, worked. As Desmond approached the familiar hum of energy brushed along his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. 

The box, roughly the size of one of those portable storage containers or the smaller of the Uhaul trucks, was mostly gray with only very thin lines of the obsidian that the Isu used in their greater constructions running through it. And it was, well, it didn't look Isu. The patterns the black lines made curved and intersected and felt more organic than any Piece of Eden. He could nearly see the pattern, there was an image there, but it was covered by dust and tarp and- 

Desmond's hand brushed against the box. He felt a spark, something like static but so much stronger, reach out and latch _._ He fell backward, the tarp caught in one fist falling with him. The ground vibrated as the box, still shining white, began to pulse as black lines began to glow silver. Desmond scrambled, cursing his own naivete -he squashed the instinct that still said  _safe_ \- and watched as the hum of power reached a crescendo that made his head ache. 

Suddenly, it stopped, and blinking the spots away Desmond noticed the crack that had appeared along the top of the box. The crack expanded, fog spilling over as what was clearly a lid steadily rose. A small, blinking face poked over the edge before disappearing back into the box at a grumble of,  _“Maegi!”_

“What?” There was a child in the box? What?

The very clear sound of a dog barking, followed by the scrambling of claws and more grumbles before a shout followed by a blast of concussive force sent the top of the box careening into the ceiling with a crack where it lingered, thoroughly embedded.

Desmond found himself staring at a face that had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. Short, frazzled hair stuck out cartoonishly, like the man had just stuck his car keys in a light socket. Eyes that glimmered with a familiar amber swept the room, lingering briefly on Desmond, before offering a lopsided smile and disappearing back into the box.

The kid waved happily as she was lifted over the top and dazedly, Desmond caught the girl as she was dropped into his arms. She was naked except for a few bits of jewelry, which was a little concerning, except then a dog the size of a Shetland pony jumped down to circle them both, nose to the ground. The man, also naked, was the last to crawl over the top of the box with an annoyed cat clinging to his shoulders and drawing blood. He had a long staff in his hand, what looked like Isu writing carved all along the length.

The girl was babbling at Desmond.

In the soft light of his glow stick, they looked so obviously other. The man was nine feet tall if he was six, he fucking towered over Desmond, with silvered lines crossing a lean body like metallic tattoos. The girl squirmed for freedom, Desmond gave it, and she had the same markings if not as bright, and not nearly so many.

They had the same eyes.

“ _Maegi!”_

“ _Baba!”_

Desmond watched as a smaller compartment on the box was revealed from the outside, as a store of clothing and what looked like a goddamn _crystal skull_ was taken out. Dressed, the Isu -because what else could he be- turned and offered a true smile and short bow. He pressed a fist to his chest.

“ _Arie a-E'den,”_ The first clenched and gestured to the small girl who grinned a gap-toothed grin and gave the slopiest curtsy he'd ever seen. _“Maegi a-E'den, tu?”_

The Assassin took a deep breath, and tried not to burst into laughter. He gave his best smile, beating his chest with a fist. “Desmond Miles. Nice to meet you!”

“ _Desmond Miles.”_ The Isu repeated, intonation nearly perfect, making Desmond's own name send a shiver down his spine.

He wondered if Minerva had predicted this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure where this would go, except I have this hilarious thought that Juno is really pissed and constantly nagging the 'luddite' and trying to get Harry -or 'Arie'- to see her way of thinking. And in turn Harry gets pissed off because his sweet baby girl is *not* an abomination and crime, thank you, that he slam's Bob's skull onto a Temple interface letting the AI/Spirit into the Temple's network. And Juno immediately gets punched in the face by a pervert, who is also mighty annoyed, because does she really think she was the first one to figure out how to preserve minds? The research and development of such branches of 'magic' were outlawed for a reason. Now meet the reason.
> 
> And in case it didn't come across, basically anyone with half a brain and the will the pay attention could see the sun was going to explode, and so Harry set to making a safe box for him and his closest. He actually sent the plans out for others to use (which will in fact be used by the Carpenters, as Charity is an Isu and wants her many babies to live) but was mostly ignored because of reasons. He wasn't very high up on the Isu chain, was considered a 'brute' and 'old school' since he handcrafted most of his tools. Also, retconning the Apples so that they weren't actually made until after the war broke out and some change in leadership determined that mind control was no longer illegal if it was used to keep the 'animals' in line.


	4. Fate/Hidden Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond becomes a Master in the 5th Holy Grail War. Because if there's anything that war needs it is yet another Teenager bringing their drama to the party, and since Zouken took his sweet ass time summoning True Assassin Desmond does it first. True Assassin just happens to be Malik Al'Sayf.

Desmond had fucked up.

He didn't know how or where, precisely, he'd fucked up but he had. It could have started with the pretty blonde who'd been older than she looked. It may have been the house party he'd crashed. Could be the homeless shelter that had offered a bed and meal that had been so, so tempting. Hell, maybe his first mistake had been leaving the Farm to begin with.

If so, he'd gladly make that mistake again and again and damn the terrifying, glowing, probably demonic consequences. The nights of cold, of hunger, of confusion were all worth it.

Just like the Assassins in the Histories said; Freedom was worth it.

Even if he died here, eaten by the hellish creature that was coalescing in the light of the not-exactly-pentagram, at least he died _free._

 _..._ though, if given the chance, he would definitely not break into the house with the creepy ass summoning circle in the cellar. Not that he originally knew the circle was _present._ And he definitely would not have picked up the sword -no matter how much he might pawn it for- and cut himself like a damned _novice._

He'd tried cleaning up, but that had only smeared DNA evidence around and onto the edge of the circle which made the air start moving and the ground glow and... yeah. He was going to fucking die.

Desmond stared, frozen, a fawn trapped in the instance of confused flight-or-fight as the truck came barreling down the interstate. Eyes that seemed to swallow all light opened into a narrow glare behind a shell of bone. The man -or at least man _shaped_ \- creature rose from its kneeling position. Quietly, hysterically, Desmond noticed a dark, empty sleeve flapping in the unnatural breeze. A weakness, maybe, but how was he supposed to exploit such an obvious gap in defenses? He wasn't even holding the stupid ass sword, with its stupid ass eagle motif anymore.

The demon opened its mouth, and Desmond flinched.

“I ask you, are you my Master?” Desmond said nothing, his thoughts going as still as his body. The demon apparently did not like that, because it's mouth turned downward and took a menacing step forward, “I shall only ask once more: Are you my Master?”

Desmond's still healing arm burned then, hot and sudden, and he yelped: “Yes! Yes! Of course! Don't eat me!”

Something happened then, something Desmond couldn't put into words, but as the wind stilled and the light died the sense of... menace? Danger?... that he'd gotten from the Demon shifted. The creature propped its one hand on its hip and snorted, _“Mubtadi.”_

And just like that, it wasn't an enemy. He didn't feel like an enemy but something, cool. Comfortable. Safe.

“Well?” His demon continued, gaze having moved from Desmond to their rather cluttered and now thoroughly scattered surroundings. “There is a war on, is there not? Shall we be off?”

War? “You mean, with the Templars?”

“Templars...?” Those dark eyes narrowed again, a finger tapping against a belt that was heavy and thick and more like a piece of armor than anything else. “Tell me, Master, what do you know of the Holy Grail War?”

“....avoid French castles?”

Desmond never thought he'd see a demon face palm. He also never thought he'd be hauled over one's shoulder and carried like a sack of potatoes while they ran from the cops -apparently he'd missed at least one silent alarm when he'd broken into the house, he was hoping it was magic and not normal, he didn't want to think he'd gotten that sloppy- but apparently that was his life now. Also being inducted into secret wars -which was normal- for a magical trophy that granted wishes -which was not- and all his partner/Servant/ _slave-driver_ wanted as his wish was his _name._

Desmond didn't really have a wish for himself, but learning that he poor bastard didn't know his own identity... only that he'd carried the title, however briefly, of Hassan-i-Sabbah.

_The Old Man of the Mountain._

A Mentor of the Brotherhood.

Well, that was something and someone he could fight for. Everyone deserved their name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 5th grail war takes place in 2004 - this would mean Desmond will be around 17 years old, give or take a few months. Also, his command seals took a shape that looked AWFULLY similar to the Assassin symbol. When he woke up and saw them he freaked out and blew his savings on an elaborate tattoo to cover them up, which lead to him targeting what he thought was an empty vacation house to burglarize for some quick cash. 
> 
> And yes, he now has the Sword of Altaïr. And Malik is making him train with it. They have a plan to win the war. It is ridiculous, involves globe trotting to pick up Pieces of Eden and a LOT of misdirection.


	5. Old Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While connected to the Eye Desmond has a peek at all possible worlds and finds the one where his own soul mate resides. He then of course decides that's where he wants to retire. At the time his soul mate being a thousand year old vampire didn't seem to be worth noticing.

Damian breathed, but his heart did not beat. He wondered at the contradiction as he watched the crowd mill on the floor below him. Their hearts beat. They moved in the low, flashing light as writhing bodies that pulsed in his ears tempting, tempting, tormenting. Sweat wafted to his tongue, and heartbeats fluttered like delicate butterflies in his throat. He swallowed, mouth dry, hand squeezing the balustrade hard enough that it cracked.

Would that his Mistress had allowed his conciousness to fly free, instead of chaining it back to his corpse. Blood freely given did not slack his thirst, and whatever oaths of power lay between himself and Jean-Claude had shattered under the strength of his Mistress' will.

And yet his heart did not beat. He had the power to wake, but not live. He had never been a Master in his own right, She-That-Made-Him saw to that, but age had a power of its own and his heart had continued to beat, a holdout of rebellion, despite all her efforts. 

Except now, when whatever power his nature commanded drained away as quickly as it came, leaving him as stretched and wrung as a tanned hide. His heart sat like an anchor in his chest, each movement a labor, and every instinct demanded he drink and drink and drink until that void filled. It would be so  _simple,_ humans had become  _soft,_ had lost that edge that kept their ancestors alive in the dark of the night... 

Damian forced himself to inhale, lungs screaming, and backed away from the balcony. He did not make his way to the stairs that would lead to the floor filled with dancing prey. Instead he crooked a finger, and felt his mouth fill with water as one of the slaves - _bussers_ , he was  _regressing_ \- abandoned their tray and darted through the guests swiftly as a wolf through a lost flock.

Energy skittered along his skin, as warm and tempting as the blessings of his childhood, while the wolf peered sheepishly through a human face. “Sir?”

“I'm going out.” Shifter always tasted better than human, but with the bonds between him and Jean-Claude dissolved he'd lost access to those that were contracted to feed the Master's circle. But maybe, maybe the magic in the wolf's blood would be enough... Damian's nails cut into his palm, the salt and iron of his own scent spiking and making dark pupils widen as the wolf's nostrils flared. “Personal business. Let Requiem know.”

“Uh, sure, are you okay?” The _man_ scratched at his arm, head tilted the slightest bit backward in an aborted show of submission. Damian shook his head and turned with a growl. Each movement hurt, but he must move. His control was slipping, and as much as he wanted to lie down in a barrow, as much as parts of him preferred true death, there was a smaller part of him that had grown loud in the cavernous silence of his heart.

The night air met his skin in a wet, sloppy kiss and Damian kicked off the roof, running. Normally, he would have flown. Normally, his own power was enough.

Normally he did not feel the slow drip of sanity escaping his fingers. Even She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was never so cruel. The terror of the mad was a stale thing, bland and tasteless, and he needed, he needed, he _needed-_

* * *

Desmond had wondered why the Eye was called the Eye. It wasn't a thought he voiced, and it wasn't something that seemed all that important in the long run, but it was there in the back of his head while Ratonhnhaké:ton stalked deer and soldiers, in those brief moments in the morning when all was quiet and he got to be himself instead of someone else. The Eye was supposedly a method of shielding the Earth from the Super Solar Flare -which made it sound like a 90's cartoon hero- so why not call it that? If they wanted to be fancy and in theme Minerva could have gone with the Aegis.

The Eye was just... bizarre. And creepy. Very Big Brother Is Watching You Die.

Then Desmond, too tired to really consider much beyond dying now or dying with everyone else, put his hand on the pedestal and received the answer to his idle musing. The Eye was  _very_ appropriate and either Minerva had pulled one over on Juno or the woman was the goddess of fucking  _lies._ It wasn't quick, and he didn't die.

He almost would have preferred it if he had. 

The pain came in two forms. One started with his palm and crept up his arm. It was a very physical pain as energy poured into him and he knew - the second hurt was mental, it was blowing open all the barriers that humans and even Isu had in place to protect themselves from information overload- that the Eye was searching for enhancements Desmond did not have.

Desmond was human, had always been human, had never gotten the nanite -though they were smaller than that, and called something different- bath at birth that would enable an ease with Precursor tech that was nigh magical and boost his own mental and physical capabilities. The Eye still recognized Desmond's biometrics, Minerva had designed it to only answer to his unique genetic pattern, even if he didn't have the same UI as Isu did. So the damned thing was trying to brute force that connection, like getting a program to run by shoving your entire arm through the motherboard, and the sad fact was that it  _worked._

The Universe was so much bigger than he'd ever thought possible. It wasn't just space and time, it was  _probability._ Possibility. 

The Calculations. The Creed. Two names for the same damn thing. So long as there was non-Zero chance for something to occur, somewhere and somewhen, it  _did._ Earths peeled back like layers of an onion. Worlds where North and South America were never discovered, never colonized. Worlds where the Isu didn't die out but fled the Earth entirely, leaving behind a husk for their creations to clean up. Desmond saw  _dragons_ lurking beneath the earth, sleeping, and knew the careful manipulations of biology that gave birth to them. He saw himself, a dozen times over, as a Master Assassin and the pride of the Brotherhood. Of his father.

That Desmond was  _useless_ to Minerva. 

At some point Desmond's screams turned into hysterical laughter.

For all that she claimed divinity, Juno thought too small. Even freed on  _this_ Earth, the Brotherhood would snuff her out sooner or later; in his moment of omniscience he could  _see_ that, as inevitable as the Flare itself. There were so many more worlds unaware of the danger that lurked in their skies.

Desmond, through the pain and encroaching madness, kept protective vigil over them all.

* * *

“Oh My God, Becky!”

Clarity came in a rush, like plunging into a frozen lake, as his heart jerked in his chest and a slender wrist dropped from his bruising grip.

“What the Fucking Hell?!”

Damian inhaled with the shock of it, a human reaction he'd thought he'd lost centuries ago, and pressed himself back into the shadows of an alleyway. The two women weren't looking at him anymore, their concern for him forgotten and bitter on his tongue as he recalled what he had meant to do to them. 

Two pretty little blondes, one a natural beauty and one made that way with the touch of chemical dye, wandering the Riverfront half drunk and giggling. Necks bare of even the simplest torc to protect them, they were willful and perfect and he'd hardly had to say anything to draw them like lambs to slaughter. And he would have slaughtered them. With their inebriated minds even the weakest days old  _child_ could have enthralled the women. He would have pulled the one close, the one that more resembled Her, and torn her throat open as her companion helplessly watched.

The other might have screamed, might have drawn attention, but it would have been brief. The moment she broke the enchantment and opened her mouth he would have ripped her apart like so much bloody tissue.

And then Jean-Claude would have been forced to act.

“Oh, Hell, Oh God. We should, we should go home, yeah?”

What Jean-Claude would have done Damian did not know. He supposed he would never know, now, the women were alive and leaving and he himself was  _alive._ His heart beat, strong and sure, every breath no longer felt like it was filling his lungs with rusty knives. Closing his eyes, head falling forward and allowing the curtain of his hair to further shadow his face, Damian slid down the brick of an old restaurant till he hit the solid, safe earth.

The connection with his Mistress was gone, burned out. There had not been much to begin with. She was so very far away and her shields were so very strong he doubted she even noticed his strength was no longer hers to demand; his absence in her metaphysical landscape simply more of the same. 

But there was something, a well-spring that bubbled up warm and rich and so utterly unabashed. Damian drank it down, savored it, cupped it in his hands and let that power wash over and nourish his starved body. Intellectually, he knew he should be concerned that anyone could cut the bond between himself and his Mistress and what their motives might be. But he'd lived nearly a thousand years with She-Who-Made-Him's jealously and spite, and these last months in the backwash of Anita's unfocused rage, that the simple  _wonder_ and  _contentment_ that bleed through the open bond was  _comforting._ Even the spikes of pain were flavored with glee – it was the sort that came with realizing one was alive enough to feel pain.

Hardly daring to hope, Damian reached toward to itching sensation on his arm and rolled back the sleeve of his coat. When he turned his wrist to see the underside of his forearm he stilled, from his eyes to his toes to the heart in his chest. In beautifully drawn letters akin to illuminated scripture was the name of his soulmate. The vampire kissed the soulmark and hugged his arm to his chest, bloody tears trailing down his face.

_He_ had a  _soul._

Compared to that, the fact the night sky had turned a bright, luminous red was as interesting as goat's fart.

* * *

Desmond gasped, heart shuddering back into rhythm as one last punch of adrenaline flushed his system. He pulled himself into a sitting position with a cough, and even that simple motion was difficult and painful. His felt like one big aching muscle, like his limbs were made of wet noodles, as though he'd just finished running a marathon with no prep or breaks.

Hadn't the original guy to do that died? Shaun would know... 

With blind -figuratively and literally- fingers he groped for the strap of his backpack. The stone beneath him was uneven and cold, not like the Temple he remembered, as if it were an actual cave. On hands and knees and total darkness Desmond crawled, head pulsing with the aftershocks of whatever the Eye had done to him and making Eagle Vision a Bad Idea. When his hands found a scrap of cloth he gave a silent prayer of thanks to Jupiter as he was a little annoyed at Minerva and pulled his pack close.

His hands shook as he unzipped it and fumbled for the water bottle he'd always made sure was topped off. It took an embarrassing three tries before he managed to unscrew the cap and even then spilled more than a little over himself as he drank, sore throat working with a desperation that made the pain seem far away and unimportant. A few other things fell out by the sound of it, but it was the dull clang of heavy metal on stone that drew his attention away from the water.

Grimacing in the darkness, Desmond reached for Ezio's Apple. It hadn't rolled, luckily, and as soon as his skin came in contact with the artifact light lanced out, burning away the darkness and the Assassin scion's eyes. Desmond let out a strangled wail and turned his head away, eyes screwed shut and watering as he braced himself. One breath, two, after a minute of quiet and gradually dimming light he cracked one eye.

The Apple was still casting light, though not nearly so painfully bright, and as he raised the Apple above his head instead of the carved structures of the Grand Temple there was natural bends and arches and a clear cave system that had gone dry decades if not centuries ago. In a habit that had been trained out and then reinforced three times over, Desmond licked at the scar on his lip as he took in rising stalagmites and waxy balconies. The area he was in was a clear space, probably a spot where water pooled before spilling over.

He could almost remember it: the overlapping Earths. Countless worlds all in danger, most unaware, and him straddling the space between them all. Not that he could remember them that well. The Eye was gone, thankfully, used up. Desmond groaned and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. If the cave around him was any clue this Earth had been one of the ones that didn't have Isu kicking around and manipulating things. Some had been like that: between the War and the First Flare the entire race was wiped out and humanity was left to rebuild alone.

He was pretty sure he'd chosen this Earth. For some reason. But he couldn't really remember what he'd been thinking when he'd been god!Desmond.

God!Desmond. The thought made the man giggle, and as he rescued a granola bar from where it had fallen out of his backpack he considered what kind of god he'd want to be. A god of Assassins? Assassins did not need or want gods. A god of bartenders? That might be nice. He'd take sacrifices of micro brews and bless his people with quick reflexes and ever flowing taps... 

Giggling, Desmond gave the granola a home in his growling belly. He pocketed the wrapper and slung his pack back on, fingers flexing as strength slowly bled back into them. 

It was time to find out what kind of world a deity would pick for vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a crossover with **Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter.** Yes, yes, the series is vampire porn, I know, but this would be platonic soulmates and I've been toying with the idea of a soulmate AU for a while. And vampires. For some reason I really want Desmond to have a vampire soulmate and you can blame the upcoming Assassin's Creed Valhalla for my final choice.
> 
> As the timeline for AB:VH is all over the damn place I've thrown it out the window, but events wise this story takes place somewhere between _Burnt Offerings_ where Damian is forcefully bound to Anita, and _Narcissus in Chains_ where it is revealed the poor bastard went crazy from magical neglect/starvation and had to be locked in a cross wrapped coffin after murdering two girls. 
> 
> Also, it is very likely I'll use the plot device of the Eye accessing multiple worlds as the medium for future crossovers. It's just so easy to do.


	6. Soldier, Poet, King II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. I honestly just wanted Ezio showing off Gelato, and it turned into this. My research shows that it was invented sometime in the 16th century, which means it is entirely possible that Ezio knew of the thing even he himself never tried it.
> 
> Also, Altaïr references events from Assassin's Creed: Altaïr's Chronicles

Altaïr knows he's having a nightmare, knows that the hands on his arms belong to brothers long dead, and yet he can't escape. He cannot stop the blade that pierces his side and fills his mouth with sour copper. The man he trusted, who all but raised him after his father's sacrifice, holds the knife and he looks disappointed. Al Mualim doesn't twist it, but with that look he might as well have.

Altaïr collapses, gasping, as the hands holding him vanish into so much smoke and he blinks awake to the sight of stars overhead. There is a gentle murmur in the back of his thoughts; Ezio's comforting purr. Desmond's worry manifests as nauseous tremble low in their belly, and he raises their hand to press against a wound that never was. The fabric is soft. So soft, and so smooth and light it is like running his fingers over a cloud and the feel of it is that last thing he needs to anchor himself back into the moment.

He continues watching the sky, clear with unfamiliar stars bright, and he doesn't cry.

The last time he cried was when his father died, then his father's friend, which made his best friend hate him.

Al Mualim could have killed him. The attack was careful, he knows that now, it had missed his vital organs and major veins and arteries but he'd still had a fever from infection and nearly died. Altaïr closes their eyes and feels a throb of sympathy below his ribs. Ezio was young once, too.

“ _Kill first._ ” Altaïr whispers, and something that feels like a bemused smile catches his thought before he can finish the words. “ _Always be certain._ ”

There is a feeling in their eyes that he'll blame on Desmond, and Altaïr wipes at the tears that threaten with the sleeve of their coat. He doesn't know why he has the same memory play in their shared consciousness, over and over, or why his fellow Assassin feels so guilty about it. Desmond did not ask to share his body with them. Did not want to be some sort of _Chalice_ and Altaïr _burns_ because he is not kind and he was a mistake. 

The Brotherhood had not wanted  _him._

That's fine, he thinks with enough venom to give a snake indigestion, the feeling is mutual.

Though the foreign surprise that sparks through them at the thought, the wonder, makes their fingers tingle and cheeks warm. He'd nearly forgotten. Desmond had done what Altaïr had failed to do, weighed down by grief and anger and the memory of Adha dying in his arms. Desmond, when he was barely more than a boy, had run away _._

“ _We all have, now._ ” It comes out, a half formed prayer curling up around their ears.

“You have not sampled _gelato_ ,” Their mouth moves, there is a sense of floating, and then Altaïr is looking out of eyes that he no longer commands. “Have you, _fratello?_ It did not yet exist when you first lived... ah? You neither, Desmond? Tsk. We shall have to correct this at once!” 

Ezio makes their way down the side of the building with the careful patience that Altaïr never had. He finds a  _gelato_ shop -it has other sweet treats, too, but that's not what they are there for- open late and walks out juggling three small paper bowls with colorful lumps. A dollop of lemon-yellow hits their tongue and Altaïr freezes like the treat with the cold substance slowly melting in their mouth. There is a shift in posture -pride- and after they swallow Ezio's purr is a sly, knowing thing. “Crafted by my countrymen, you know?”

Desmond takes command of the little wooden paddle and takes a bite from his own bowl. It's a burst of mint, colder than cold, and pleasure ripples down their spine. Their legs swing childishly, barely missing the ground as they sit atop an outdoor table enjoying their treat. Ezio's own bowl has a light brown scoop, but Altaïr never finds out what it tastes like because the crunch of gravel reaches their ears and their Sight expands.

The oncoming red forms chase away the simple joy. Ezio sighs, their entire body slumping with it, before he sets the bowl aside and levels a frown at the darkness. The frown twitches into bearing of teeth as the first glint of a gun catches in the glow of a streetlight.

“ _Fratellini?”_

Altaïr accepts the invitation for what it is _,_ hidden blade sliding free.


	7. Fanning Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been bingeing Naruto fic lately. Probably not going to be continued, because I stopped keeping up with canon after Gaara got Shukaku sucked out of him. Also this would probably end in Konoha on fire and no reset button to save everyone.

There is much Ezio does not know. What he does know is this: His name is Ezio, of the Uchiha Clan, and his parents love him. For this he is grateful. 

His mother is what they call a _Kunoichi_ , what he wants to call an _Assassin_ , and a master of the sword. When his father, a talented blacksmith, crafts a blunted practice blade for Ezio she carries him on her back through the trees and puts him through his paces. The forms are similar and yet so different than what he dreams, what he remembers in the quiet moments between awake and asleep, that he trips on his own feet and at first everyone declares him hopeless. A failed experiment. 

He has his father's eyes, not his mother's, and though he will never be able to develop the _Sharingan_ when he mimics what his mother does his eyes gleam and the world filled with color. When he's presented to the clan head he sits in his mother's lap and they are shown a series of boxes and told to _find mother's necklace._ When he does the clan head's mouth twitches, mother kisses his cheeks and praises him, and though the exact words are lost on such a young boy the clan stops whispering about him being a failure. He's something new and special and all are sworn to secrecy.

Mother promises the clan head that she will have more children. She's always wanted more children, but it isn't a promise she can keep because a mission goes wrong and when she comes out of the hospital she feels so empty and clutches him close, crying, with father wrapping them both in his arms. Something inside mother dies, something important, and the days she doesn't leave her bed and simply stares out the window are the worst. They make Ezio think of another woman, just as important, lost in a fog but no matter what Ezio does she never sees him, never hears him, Ezio is invisible to the praying woman.

The day mother throws down her blade and refuses to teach him anymore is the day Ezio is supposed to start at the Academy.

It's the day Ezio promises he won't become a _Shinobi._ He plucks the petals from a flower at the training ground and tells his mother he wants to be a painter. He wants to do portraits and landscapes and put beauty into the world. The clan head forgives him, pats his head, and makes him promise to one day have strong children of his own. To make sure his fledgling _Kekkai Genkai_ does not die out. 

He keeps the sword his father made him, though, and runs through the forms on his own. It's calming. 

There is much Ezio does not know. Why he dreams of cities on water and great domed structures. Deserts he's never seen and mountains he has never climbed.

What he does know is this: His name is Ezio, of the Uchiha Clan, and he loves his family.

Ezio is thirteen when he realizes that he knows even less than he thought. When Ezio is thirteen the clan dies. An illusion traps everyone but him: the _genjutsu_ finding no purchase as his own eyes see the truth of the world. The village that he once happily claimed as his own has sent killers in pale masks to slaughter men, women, and children all led by the clan heir. All while surgically removing the eyeballs of still breathing kin. It's wrong. It's disgusting. And he can't do anything -his sword was never meant for active combat and there are so many of them- but he has to do _something._

Ezio bites his lip, draws blood, and grabs as many so still but still breathing children as he can. He clings to the shadows and drags them out of the compound between heartbeats; babies and toddlers and his own age mates but it is not enough. It will never be enough. He gets a bare dozen out and away before the sun comes up and the illusion brakes and all he has left of his family is sitting in the dirt terrified of the village they haven't fully escaped from. 

But they will.

So he shushes his ragged remains of family, tries to remember what being a father is like, feels hate flood though his veins in a way he can hardly believe he had forgotten.

There is much Ezio does not know. What he does know is this: His name is Ezio Auditore, of the Uchiha Clan, and he will have vengence.


	8. Animus: Mind, Spirit, Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over exposure to Pieces of Eden has certain side effects that are exacerbated in those that possess certain bloodlines. Altaïr has been searching a thousand years to secure the other half of his soul. (Or, the Soulmate AU where Soulmates are not a thing and immortality is lonely, insanity inducing business.)

“-Up! I said get up, goddammit.” The world dissolved around him as Vidic's voice intruded on the battle. For a moment Desmond imagined it was coming from the mouth of the Lionheart, but no. He kept his eyes shut against the bright lights above him as the Animus shield rolled back and Vidic continued ranting, for once not sounding like the self important smarmy asshole he was. Almost as though he were afraid. “Listen!”

“Oh no...” Lucy sighed, refusing to catch his eyes and looking back down at her monitor. The sound of screams and rapid gunfire -automatic rifles, if he had to guess- came through the speaker on Vidic's desk, loud in the usually quiet room. Desmond winced and twisted around, trying to focus on the doctor. The sounds of the fight were still going, and background that was jarring recently lived memories loose, and for half a moment he could have sworn instead of a labcoat Vidic was wearing surcoat and chainmail.

The not-a-knight sneered, though it was more akin to the snarl of a cornered animal than anything else. “Seems your Assassin friends found us.”

“What?” That didn't feel right. After he'd run away, and hadn't seen hair nor hide of any other Assassin for almost a decade. Frankly, if what Lucy had been hinting at had any truth to it he'd expected to die here for knowing too much or eventually rescue himself, somehow.

That was a calm certainty in the back of his mind; an anchor to hold onto in the insanity of the kidnapping. This ongoing vacation in enemy hands hadn't really changed anything in the long run: he'd lived most of his life hiding from the Templar under the bed. Form the Assassins down the hall. He'd just have to be careful not to let his guard down again.

“How'd you do it, Desmond?” Vidic was saying, something not unlike morbid curiosity in his tone. It overtook the fear, and the hungry look that took over the man's face reminded Desmond of some of the cougars that always took a little too long ordering their drinks.

Desmond was not prepared for how offended the accusation, _the expression_ , made him feel.

“Hey, look, I don't know what you're talking about but whatever is going on down there? Has got nothing to do with me!” Probably nothing to do with Assassins, too. A frontal assault with AR's didn't jive with anything he'd been taught as a kid. Hell, he'd never reached the point in training were he was even allowed to work with a pistol, and he'd been Sixteen when he left!

Desmond ignored the voice of Malik chiding him, chiding _Alta_ _ï_ _r_ , as the ring of gunfire mingled with the ring of city bells.

Vidic's finger was a sword, jabbing at him from the safety of distance. Like he thought Desmond might jump up and start attacking him. “They are here for you! And I sure as shit didn't invite them!”

Desmond pushed himself off the Animus and paused to get his bearings as the screams continued to fill the room. They didn't really feel real. None of it. It all seemed kinda theatrical, and why the screaming? Either it was the guys defending, in which case he seriously doubted their effectiveness, or it was civilians.

_Stay thy blade from the blood of the innocent._

Why did they insist it was Assassins? Maybe it was just normal terrorists annoyed someone was stealing their shtick and kidnapping people.

Whatever Vidic had wanted he didn't get, and turned back to his desk with a disgusted huff. The fear that had painted his voice vanished as though it had never been. A commander stood in place of a weaselly little labcoat. “What's the situation down there?”

“We're taking heavy fire.” Said the faceless solider.

“Can you contain it? Or do I need to evacuate the prisoner?” Desmond listened with half an ear, wandering over to the windows. They were oddly tinted, he couldn't see much more than the vague shapes of buildings beyond them, but it was clearly daytime. If people rocked up the front doors of a fancy ass buildings like this one, with assault rifles, and started firing... shouldn't the cops be called?

Even if cell phones were taken at the door as a security measure, surely at least one civilian would have called in the terrorist action. Or pulled a fire alarm. Or _something._

Desmond breathed on window to make it fog. He etched a cross onto the glass.

“Only five or six... we've got them outnumbered.” The voice said after a pause filled with the same screams and moans and gunfire. Five or six his ass. “Couple of wounded but we'll pull through. We'll get it under control.”

Which meant there were going to be bodies if it was true, which meant a crime scene, and bullet casings fucking everywhere. An investigation, which he could use to escape, if it was true.

Somehow he doubted that. An Assassin would have gone in quiet, taken advantage of a little chaos to hide their movements. That was a certainty, as real as the ring finger still attached to his hand.

_Nothing is True._

“Goddamn you, Desmond!” What, no Mr. Miles? “You couldn't leave well enough alone.”

Frustration spilled out of his mouth. Fucking Gaslights. “I told you I had nothing to do with this. How would I even contact them?! Telepathy? Come on!”

Fucking mind games. Just like his fucking father.

“Doesn't matter, they'll be dead soon enough. Here, have a listen.”

Like clockwork, just like they'd no doubt rehearsed, Vidic pressed the button and a final scream punctuated by gunshots sounded through the room. On cue the unknown man stated, deadpan, “Threat's been neutralized.”

Vidic grinned, pleased with his little play. “Looks like the cavalry won't be coming.”

Desmond smiled back as the lights flickered and he thought of the field of dead Templars and de Sable's blood on his blade. That anchor of certainty, that nothing had really changed, held him like a lover. A thousand years between then and now, and they were still trying to scare him, make him doubt... make him weak enough to give up and be Their tool. “You know doc, you were freaking out a minute ago. Your little research facility not as secure as you thought it was? Worried they'll be back with more?”

Lucy butted in, voice soft. “I don't think so, Desmond.”

“What Lucy here is trying to say,” Vidic paused for effect, but before he could continue the door to the lab opened and a figure shrouded in coat and hood stepped through. With a hard _puft_ a silenced bullet went through the scientist's heart. Red fountained out of the exit wound as the bullet continued, slamming into the thick windows and leaving a circle of cracks in the glass. The world was tinted that same red, the red that saw scrawled above his head every time he had woken up to Vidic's demands to get back in the Animus, and Desmond leaned against the machine as his legs threatened to collapse on him.

The weight of the gun was in his hands. He could see the lab as it was, cold and clinical and white, and he saw it as it was. Drenched in mad scrawls of the now dead as two pillars of gold stood and one fading red washed warnings away.

“Who, who are you? Did Bill send you?!” Lucy demanded, voice oddly shrill.

Ignoring her, Desmond walked forward with all the surety of an avalanche. He put three more bullets in the window before it frosted over in spiderwebs. Holstering the gun, though hand-canon would be more appropriate, Desmond's attention turned to... Desmond.

Unnaturally silver hairs glinted in a short beard as a small, gentle smiled formed with a whisper of, “Habibi.”

Desmond-by-the-Animus sucked in a breath, the word coursing through him like his very soul had just been struck with a tuning fork. It was not English, but he knew the language in same way he knew that he had nine fingers and ten toes. A palm cupped his cheek and he leaned into it, into the space of the sacrificed finger, as a melody played in the back of his mind and the man that was-and-was-not-him spoke, golden eyes aglow, _“I have waited a thousand years to find you again, my love. And I would wait a thousand more, but the Knights are coming and we must go.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will probably be another part of two in this verse at some point, but I've been having trouble writing Altaïr's point of view so I figured I would just post what I have. Altair used the cover of the 'Emergency Test' to sneak into Abstergo and steal his 'soulmate'. Due to how Isu tech interacts he was fully aware of when he was being 'watched' by Desmond, and kinda got used to it. And then missed it. And decided that someone stole his soulmate, which he then interrogated the Apple about. 
> 
> Also, this is in fact a wingfic (Altaïr has wings hidden under a big old coat) and I'm amused by the idea of him hanging out in the shadows forever, sniping PoE from Templars before they ever get to them (the Map is useless by this point) and using them to make his nest all shiny. He's more magpie than Eagle at this point. Desmond has got his work cut out for him.


	9. Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fear the Lord your God, serve him only and take oaths in his name. Do not follow other gods, the gods of the peoples around you; For the Lord your God, who lives among you, is a jealous God. His anger will flare up against you, and he will wipe you from the face of the Earth." - Deuteronomy 6:13-15

The sheets are soft. Most days it is hard to think. Most days the difference between awake and asleep is razor thin, like the present is a mirage, and if he’s lucky he’ll be able to answer to the name Desmond and know just how fucked he is. Today, however, the sheets are as soft and cool as fresh spring water and he spends an hour or two running his fingers over the luxury as he stares up at the barred ceiling and sunlight streaming through. He’s too far down for the heat of the rays to reach him, but the bars of his cage glitter and the phantom ring of a feather floating just out of sight tempts him into another time. 

Another place.

“Good Morning,” Her voice is soft and gentle when she speaks. Behind her the secondary barrier moves back into place, glass and steel, locking with a click of finality. She’s holding a tray, they are always holding something, and the floor lights up under her bare feet. It goes from red to green and his cage door opens. She smiles, tray contents rattling, and tilts her so that a curl of reddish-brown falls across her forehead.

They used to throw blondes at him, like Lucy, but they don’t do that anymore. 

This one looks more than a little like Sophia. He tries to keep still, to not show anything, but there is a longing that comes through in micro expressions if nothing else, and he’s willing to bet by now the Templars know him better than he knows himself. He watches as she pours tea from an iron pot into a porcelain teacup painted with songbirds. He’s not sure if that’s accident or intentional. “And who are we today?”

He sits up, curling his legs under. “...Desmond.”

He wishes that the smile that lights her face wasn’t so real. If it were fake he could kill her, bash her head in with the pot or shatter the cup and make her bleed. 

Make himself bleed.

(On the rare days when he’s Clay, it’s a close thing, and whoever they send goes very, very still like a mouse before a cobra.)

She puts two sugars in his tea -no cream, though he’s learned Ezio prefers so much cream in both his coffee and tea it’s practically milk- and sets the cup and saucer on the bed before stepping back. She smiles somehow brighter when he scoots forward and picks it up, making encouraging noises like he’s a damn baby as he drinks it. It’s probably drugged. They used to drug his food all the time, until he stopped eating entirely, but there isn’t a speck of red in her aura.

Not much blue, really, but from whatever she’s been told she thinks she’s helping him.

Maybe she is.

How would he know?

It’s sandwiches today, different kinds in one of those tiny tiered cookie displays. They’ve been cut into triangles, crusts missing, and as he picks them up and picks at the bread he knows this too is going to go into a database somewhere. They probably have a list a mile long of his likes and dislikes like some kind of damn holy book.

Curiosity forces his hand and he picks the roast beef; its got stupidly thin apple slices between stupidly thin layers of meat and cheese and the flavor contrasts make his tastebuds sing. 

“...my mom?” He doesn’t ask about his dad. Bill is still a thorn in Abstergo’s side, but from what little he’s been told the man is poaching talent more than stopping their plans. He doesn’t merit the same concentrated effort to track and detain/eliminate that Desmond had. The fact is both flattering and sad.

“I’m sorry, Desmond.” She says his name, building that personal connection that all good little plants do. “She… we managed to locate her. She’s ill, in hospice care. Cancer.”

Which explained why they found her at all. 

The woman gives him a moment, pours another cup of tea and adds the two sugars, before asking a question of her own because that’s the compromise they’d come to. “What did you dream?”

Not a question of if he dreams. He always dreams. And he always remembers. Even Ezio, Altaïr, Connor, Clay, Giovanni, Haytham, Elise, Hitomi… even when they don’t understand it they remember the dreams.

“Numbers.” Desmond looks away, looks up, his cage is really… something. Magnificent, maybe? The gold hued bars form ladders and platforms and go all the way to the top, stopping just short of the skylight. It gives him something to do, something to climb and keep from going crazier than he already is. A gilded cage, but a cage all the same. “Bodies.”

He gives her the string of numbers that his brain calculated during the nightmare.

She doesn’t smile at it, but hums, thoughtful. No doubt they have observers already sending minions out to look up what it means.

“I would like to take your vitals, Desmond. And draw some blood. Is that alright?”

He could say no. He could. She wouldn’t force the issue. She may be an Abstergo employee on the side of the Templars, but… Abstergo is a multinational corporation. Which means it is big. It is  _ really _ big. He never thought about it when he was a kid, or when he was on the run, but like any large organization there are factions. Sure, they form ranks when under attack by an outside force but internally they are a mess of power grabs and inter-office politics trying to balance what keeps the shareholders happy while moving toward the nebulous goal of world domination.

Or world unification. Peace.

It depends on who exactly you ask.

“Sure.” Desmond offers his arm and she sits beside him on the bed, slender fingers pressing against his wrist as she counts in Italian. 

There are factions of the Templars that don’t give a shit about the Pieces of Eden, like the one that currently has custody of him. They prefer the levers of economics for controlling the populace, and consider the Apples and their kin relics of a past that has no sway on the future they intend to bring about. That’s what they see when they look at Desmond: the next evolution of Mankind, matching and then perhaps surpassing Those That Came Before.

The not-Sophia wraps the rubber around his bicep. She ties it tight and her fingertips linger a little too long on the muscle there. An invitation, but at his refusal to look at her she pats his arm and says, “This may pinch a little, Desmond.”

“Uh-huh.” He grabs one of the other sandwiches at random. She wipes his arms down and unseals a syringe. They aren’t concerned about his bloodsugar. Not now that he’s eating. It’s more that they want to keep track of how much of Desmond is still Desmond, and how much has become  _ other. _

She takes the blood, pockets it, and stacks the dishes and uneaten food back on the tray. She bows as she leaves, walking backward through the door and only turning when the cage swings shut. 

He feels tired. 

He gets up anyway, rolls to the floor and begins a routine meant to keep him sane rather than fit. He could sleep for a month and not loose an ounce of muscle mass. First is pushups and crunches, to warm up. Stretches and then he’s got his hands on the walls of his cage and he’s pulling himself up like a goddamn monkey.

Like an Assassin.

Juno is out there with her own little cult of fanatics. She wants to be flesh and blood again. She wants a body.

(His body. He's heard the recordings, _blessed Desmond_ , it makes his skin crawl.)

His eyes may have been the first thing to change -not that anyone realized, being in an induced coma for nine months while strapped into an Animus make it hard to monitor something like that- but though they burn gold and reflect light like a damn cat they aren’t the blue-brown hallmark of a Sage. He’s not pushed by the whispers of his own genetics to kiss her feet and praise her name. He can agree with his keepers on that.

Sooner or later, his cult will find hers, and he’ll kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odd idea where Desmond survives the Eye but as the Assassin's booked it his injured and unconscious form gets grabbed by Abstergo. Then as soon as they got him stabilized he was coma'd and tossed in an Animus, waste not want not you know? Only he went through IV's like crazy, and he didn't look like a coma patient, and finally someone decided to actually check to see what was going on with the guy and then quietly proceeded to fake his death (expected, really, considering the lack of attention the Animus people were giving him) and smuggle him to a different Abstergo facility.
> 
> The cage he's in is similar to one in The Promise (2005) though a bit wider/taller and more Assassin-y.


	10. The D Stands For... Part One of Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill from the [kinkmeme](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12685678#cmt12685678).
> 
> Desmond is a Level 8 Druid, and if he doesn't Seduce the Dragon they are all Dead. Then Daniel Cross' Paladin will inherit all their loot. This cannot be allowed.

_“Oh, Fuck. We are gonna die. We are all gonna die.”_ The youngest member of their party moaned, dragging his hoodie down over his face as though the action could hide him from the approaching doom.  
  
A cool, commanding voice rang through the caverns and stalactites shivered at its power. _“Was that in character?”_  
  
Blue eyes blinked uncertainly at the unseen sky. Altaïr could get away with saying something like Fuck, he was a motherfucking Assassin, but Kadar would get the stink eye and the Goddess would tell his brother and he’d loose his allowance to the swear jar. Again. He was almost sixteen! He should be able to say whatever he wanted!  
  
But the custom figure he wanted was expensive, at least if he wanted it done in metal and not cheap plastic. Kadar nodded. _“Yes.”  
  
“You’ve lost the element of surprise. Proceed.”_  
  
Layla of the Wandering Desert laughed at the Assassin’s outburst, her voice deep with her possession as the first of the cultists’ reinforcements ran straight into her Cordon of Arrows. The cultists hit the trap and exploded in geysers of blood and viscera like macabre confetti. “Do not worry, my young friend. No death will be greater than ours, no battle more Epic! Tonight, we dine, in HELL!”  
  
_“You’ve just jinxed us, you ass.”_ A lighter, wry voice commented with a soft slap of fist into well muscled shoulder.  
  
Their ranger plucked one of the few poisoned arrows from her quiver and buried it a human mage before he had the chance to get a spell off. “Don’t mind him!” Layla continued as she dropped her bow and drew a sickle, suffering a raking of claws as she did so. “Think positive! If we do survive we will be Legendary!”  
  
“Indeed.” Ezio purred, eyes gleaming as his fingers played along the strings of his lute while dancing among enraged cultists. “Why, just thinking of it makes me feel full of… **INSPIRATION!** ”  
  
Altaïr gasped as a glorious, golden haze suffused his body. He may have lost his stealth but he still had Assassinate available, and the Half Dragon that had been leading the congregation had yet to move from the altar. He charged.  
  
What kind of name was ‘de Sable anyway? The Half Dragon had clearly descended from a Blue.  
  
_“What did you roll?”_ The Goddess asked with all the patience of a bored substitute teacher.  
  
Kadar sighed. _“One.”_  
  
The table collectively hissed, winced, or flagged the waitress for another drink.  
  
_“Temple Priest de Sable grabs you by the wrist, disarming you. He leans in, sneering, electricity crackling in his maw. ‘Brave, but stupid, you cannot stop Her. No one can.’  
  
He then tosses you through the door behind the altar. Acrobatics check, please.”_  
  
Kadar considered his abysmal track record and added Ezio’s 4D to his cup. The pair rattled unhappily before spilling across the table. Low, but once he added proficiency, _“15.”_  
  
The Goddess nodded and made a mark on her papers. _“You successfully manage to catch yourself before falling into the sacrificial pit, if barely, dangling by the tips of your fingers. The scent of charred pig and dust rise on eddies of hot air from the impossible, seemingly bottomless chasm. So ends your turn. Desmond?”_

* * *

  
Talking was a free action. Desmond took advantage of this as he observed the melee, a chunk of cactus harvested during last week’s game session in his hands growing as he cast Thorn Whip. “I just want to remind everyone, for the record, that I was against this from the start. Prince Radalazech was shady as fuck - I doubt he was ever a prince, exile my ass.”  
  
He stood his ground as his weapon connected, and he rolled a pair of normal dice that combined reduced his attacker into chunky salsa. Habit, and the ghost of his father’s voice, had him taking his D20 in hand. _“Desmond checks the ceiling for enemies and or traps.”  
  
“As a half-elf you have darkvision. You spot a cadre of winged, metallic creatures crawling along the formations trying to get the drop on Ezio. Five total.”_ Minerva stated, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
Desmond wracked his brain, trying to remember what metal monsters they’d fought before, when Kadar pushed a plate of sugar dusted, deep fried, cookie dough balls under the druid’s fingers. _“Also, I’m still dangling by my literal fingertips. Help please?”_  
  
Aya gave a motherly pat to the boy’s outstretched hand, snatching a dough ball after she did so. “Don’t worry. We’re sending Senu with some rope.”  
  
Clay looked up from where he was trying to stack his dice into a tower. It wobbled dangerously. _“I seriously doubt your hawk is gonna be able to haul up a whole ass half-orc.”_  
  
Bayek grinned, wrapping his arms around his wife as she fed him stolen sweets. _“Two words. Ghost. Market.”_  
  
_“Two words. Bull. Shit.”_  
  
Not for the first time Desmond wished he’d been there for the group’s previous campaign. When he’d asked why Bayek and Aya shared a character he’d been passionlessly informed that the other players held a vote and the couple had been forbidden from playing individual characters. The synergy and loopholes they collectively exploited had turned the system on its head.  
  
The end result had been that instead of taking over the criminal underbelly of supernatural not-London they’d reformed law enforcement, made being dead legal, and ran all the other gangs out of the city with the help of their ethereal informants. Sways were, apparently, completely terrifying and unfair.  
  
Back in the game, Desmond made up his mind and snapped his whip. It coursed through the air, wrapping around a shimmery wing and ripping the quadrone from the ceiling. The thing was bloodied (oiled?) but not dead, and it hit the stone floor of the cavern with the rattle of a junk drawer. Cogs, screws, and broken finicky bits scattered as it wavered in place, searching for its attacker.  
  
“Hey, you limp dick piece of shit! I’m talking to you!” Layla bellowed, bloodied but standing, marking the dragon man as she did so. She raised her foot and brought it down on a prone enemy, dealing a small but significant amount of damage as it went unconscious. “You done sending the cannon fodder or are we doing this old school? Lizard brain to monkey paw!”  
  
_“What does that even mean?”_  
  
The dragon priest laughed, and the cave laughed with him. The ground shook as Layla’s arrow missed its target and he raised a clawed arm to do Harm.  
  
Layla charged forward as Aya rolled the D20, Bayek bouncing her on his lap in excitement. _“We have the constitution of an owl bear!”  
  
“A successful save. Congratulations.You grow weak in the knees as a wave of nausea rolls over you. Take twenty damage.”  
  
“Shit!”  
  
“Fudgemuppet.”  
  
“I’m down.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
“What level is this guy?”_  
  
Desmond narrowed his eyes at the subtle movement of a slip of paper being slid across the table. Kadar accepted the note from the Queen of Tactics, eyes growing wide as he voiced his new in-character knowledge. “Uh, guys? I would really like some help, like, now? There’s a dragon coming.”  
  
Ezio spun in place, his confusion spell still going strong, and with a strum of lute strings moved away from the bamboozled cultists to touch the dying ranger. _“I cast Cure Wounds at level 4. Here’s your twenty health back.”_  
  
Layla lurched up, spitting blood and a tooth as she did so. Almost immediately, she dropped back to one knee as the entire chamber rumbled. Desmond muttered a series of fucks as a good chunk of the ceiling nearly caved his head in. From beyond the altar a horn jutted through the doorway, Altaïr’s warning screams now silent.  
  
“KNEEL, MORTALS. AND DESPAIR.” A deep, yet oddly feminine whisper shattered stone and rattled bones.  
  
“Behold.” The half dragon had all but folded in one himself as he bowed with reverence, his back turned to the invading adventurers as though they were less than ants. Less than worms. “The Mother of Wisdom. She Who Sees The End And Wills It So.”  
  
“I AM JUNO.” A gust of hot, wet breath pushed through the chamber and Desmond checked their retreat. His hair, what little there was, stood on end like the delicate seeds of a dandelion. The entrance to the cave had been blocked by falling rubble. Fuck, fuckity fuck fuck.  
  
Walls crumbled like kindling and the altar was nothing but scrap as the Ancient Dragon dragged her body lazily from the sacrifice pit. She shed magical mechanics like fleas, the creations smaller and weaker than the previous versions but oh so many. Too many. Forget running out of spell slots - they were gonna run out of ammunition.  
  
They were going to die.  
  
_“My first campaign is going to be a TPK…”_ Desmond the runaway college drop out sighed as he rolled spaghetti noodles around his fork.  
  
Across from him Clay snatched his dice up in one fist and started passing out blank character sheets. _“Might as well get a start on the new group. I think mine will be the older brother of Ezio… Federico. On the trail of his womanizing brother, sent to retrieve him for honor, but now seeks revenge on the cult that fed him to their goddess…”_  
  
Desmond refused to let Desmond die. Not when he was the only sane man in the group. And he liked his name, dammit. He was horrible at coming up with names. He glanced at his sheet. He didn’t have many spells left but… _”Desmond uses Wild Shape to turn into a Dragon!”_  
  
Minerva stared over her Dungeon Master Screen. _“The Ancient Dragon’s CR is 23. It fails. Spectacularly.”_  
  
Desmond glared. In another realm of adventure and imagination he observed the sleek form of the Dragon. She was a sparkling blue, like sapphires and diamonds had a baby, horns adorned her brow as though she’d been born a queen.  
  
_“Dirty Twenty Insight roll. What do I know about Juno?”  
  
“Desmond, we’re gonna die. It’s okay. It happens. I say we all dogpile on Priest Dude. Might be able to take him out or at least keep her from doing AOE.”_ Aya offered. _“Can’t win them all. That’s half the fun.”  
  
“But Daniel didn’t make it tonight, that means his Paladin is going to be the lone survivor. He’s going to ‘keep safe’ all our loot, isn’t he?”_ Kadar grumbled.  
  
Desmond ignored the banter around him, focused on the woman who held their character’s lives in her hands. If there was one thing to say about Minerva, it was that she was fair. Even with Bayek and Aya running rough shod over sanity, she took their shenanigans and allowed it. Worked with it.  
  
Desmond swallowed as she copied a few facts about Juno off her own character sheets and folded the paper into a classic airplane shape. He caught it just before it nose dived into his noodles. Desmond read what little there was and took a deep breath. _“Desmond seduces the dragon.”_  
  
Bayek paused in his nuzzling of his wife. _“How?”  
  
“Yes. How?”_ Minerva asked calmly as she put a ribbon in a notebook to hold her place and leaned over. Her bookbag was full of ‘calculations’. Something for every eventuality her players might throw at her. She licked her finger and flipped through pages and pages of charts and backstory for everyone from the king to a random beggar on the street.  
  
_“Charisma.”_ Desmond rolled. The die stopped. _“Seventeen plus four, twenty one.”_  
  
Desmond the druid had grown up on stories. The Farm was a quiet place, out of the way, it took a something special to live there. It was something Desmond didn’t have. He was too curious. He liked animals well enough, but he liked people more. He understood people the way other druids understood animals.  
  
Dragons were a little of both.  
  
And he knew this Dragon, by another name. By reputation.  
  
Desmond stepped forward, his whip shriveling in on itself as a spark of druidcraft transformed it into a blue rose. Though not as bombastic as the goddesses own speech, the dragon’s language rolled off his tongue as easily as Elvish and Common. “Uni. To think I ever thought the Shadowfell would hold you, after a thousand and a thousand years, we are reunited once more…”  
  
_“What. The. Fuck.”_  
  
The Ancient Dragon’s gaze focused on the surrounded druid, claws trembling. “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT NAME, WYRM?”  
  
“Do you not remember me, Uni? This body is weak, it is true, but I have fought through heaven and hell and all the planes in between to find you again. As I promised I would.”  
  
_“She is suspicious. Her gaze narrows and you can feel the pressure of a bottled storm on your chest. Tiny knives at your eyes.”  
  
“Oh, oh shit. Yes! Ezio plays a soft, romantic tune to aide Desmond… Nat 20 motherfuckers!”_  
  
“AITA?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to get part two out before Christmas, but the Muse wanders where it will.


	11. Everyone Are Clones (Star Wars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Abuse of Clones and test-tube abortion.

The first few times it happened no one noticed except for the monitoring equipment. The extraneous data was flagged, processed, and the corresponding tank drained with its contents recycled in the name of efficiency. They were so new, little more than blobs of human flesh in a tank, the errors could have been anything from corrupt DNA coding to insufficient nutrients during development. They were prototypes, afterall, and the Kaminioan Scientists needed a base control group before beginning trials on any deviations.

The next few times the clones were allowed to develop further, the anomalies flagged and forwarded to living eyes for review before decommission, but the source of the foregin microbes proved elusive. The presence of the _midichlorians_ in the bloodstream was contrary to the purpose of the army; clones freshly decanted were carried off for study and dissection. 

There were relatively few _anomalies_ in comparison, perhaps one in a hundred thousand, especially as the projects development progressed, maturity rates began to be safely multiplied, and the warnings that accompanied the development of the midichlorian sinks were recognized and caught before progression.

Though an accident, a semi-predictable anomaly each time, the creation of the aborted clones was a proof of concept that made it into reports that through a long and complicated chain of hands made it to a pair of yellow tinted eyes.

A politician’s smile split the dark, finger tapping against a desk in thought.

Why lure in his apprentices, when he could grow them? How strong would his weapons be if their _donors_ came from those who had been strong in the Force? The Jedi never did managed to ferret out the location of the Grand Temple, and all the artifacts and remains therein...

* * *

Obi-Wan (Ben) was drowning. Or perhaps not. The memory was clear in his mind like so few other things. He could feel his mother’s hands pushing him under the water, feel the warm-cold liquid rising up and trickling into his nose, down his throat. He wasn’t wanted, he was wrong, he was _cursed._

He had dreamt of his Aunt’s death, and when news of her passing reached them his mother’s words of reassurance twisted into condemnation.

And he was no longer Ben.

 _Not my child! Child of No One!_ _Little Slip of Nothing. Obi-Wan Kenobi._

Her face is a blur of hate, the ripples of his struggles smoothing details to nothing. He can’t remember what she looked like -he had her hair, he knows, remembers curling his little fingers around it- but the feel of his hands holding him down is real and present. As real as the weight of the ocean that presses down on the mine.

It’s light in the river, but dark in the ocean. He hurts. The darksider’s steps are loud, like the rest in a requiem. 

_They don’t want you. They cast you away. He doesn’t want you. No one wants you._

The darksider leans forward, his face as much a blur as Obi-Wan’s mother’s, and the voice that comes out transitions to something sign and mocking as the torn clothes mend and his own hands shrink. His fingers feel wet -water? blood?- but when he looks down he’s dry. Water burbles, passing through the more than a thousand fountains and instead of his mother or Master Qui-Gon’s former padawan it’s Bruck. Bruck, bloodied and bruised on the floor as a the tall form of Master Qui-Gon walks away from the exhibition.

_Are you going to cry now, Kenobi?_

He doesn’t know if he’s crying. The river washes his tears away as his mother holds him down, as the darkness of the mine circles, as his own doubts replay over and over and over…

_Warning. Power failure imminent. De-synchronization in progress. Warning. Power failure imminent. De-synchronization in progress._

Obi-Wan doesn’t know the voice that washes past Bruck and sweeps the dream. His mother’s hands let go, the darkness retreats, and Bruck becomes a pale shadow with no bite before he becomes nothing at all. The water in his mouth is warm, metallic, and strangely thick as it fills his lungs.

He opens his eyes to a world washed in red, alarms blaring, panic coursing through his veins as he looks past the glass of the -bacta?- tank he’s in and he can’t think.

He can’t think.

Obi-Wan slams his fist against the glass but does nothing. He can’t build up momentum. He’s week after hunger and torture and whatever else Xanatos had done to him. He’s going to die. 

_He won’t let you die. Little slip of nothing no one will come for._

The glass cracks.

Obi-Wan’s scream vanishes into the fluid around him, as eyes like miniature suns peer at him. The darksider grunts and swings again.

The third strike shatters his prison and Obi-Wan heaves, the not-bacta pouring from his mouth. Glass crunches, bites into his baby-soft skin leaving tiny red kisses, and there are a pair of bare feet in his view. Bleeding. The darksider bleeds.

“Stai bene?”

He has no idea what the darksider is saying. It doesn’t sound like a threat. Shaking, Obi-Wan pushes himself up, stands. He notes in a daze that the darksider is shorter than him. Younger. He must still be dreaming. A hand pats his face, chubby cheeks frowning. 

“Ezio!” Another voice growls, though the intimidation is lost as it breaks toward the end. A taller, naked boy stalks into the room, a scalpel in his hand and hate in his eyes. The Force feels different, dark and heavy but not… bad. Like a weighted blanket, comforting and warm. The hate in the other boy gaze gutters, like a blown candle, as it focuses on Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan tenses. “Un altro fratello? Andiamo!”

“Vieni, fratello.” The supposed Ezio says, reaching for Obi-Wan’s hand with a grin that feels like a bonfire. 

Obi-Wan clutches at the smaller boy’s wrist, wiping his tears, reaching for the Force that he hadn’t felt since the collar went on and the darkness crept in.

* * *

Anakin wasn’t watching the recording, even though it was very interesting and the whole reason they’d come to the supposed abandoned droid factory. Anakin was watching his former Master. Obi-Wan’s face was placid as his eyes stared at the holo of himself. A smaller version of himself, somewhere between ten and thirteen, naked and vulnerable and fighting.

The Little Obi-Wan was angry, or maybe sad, tears were pouring down his face as he swept his hands out and sent the security droids that had been ganging up on the tiny Sith scattered. He dropped to he knees then, panting, and another Sithling tossed Little Obi-Wan’s arm over his shoulder and began running. 

They were all running for the ship.

In the very corner of the frame a girl child fell upon a destroyer before it could deploy it’s shield, a vibrosword shearing straight through its chassis. It dropped and she hopped off, bracing one foot against the sparking remains and pulling her weapon free. It was half as tall as she was.

_“Shao!”_

_“Mentore!”_

The tiniest Sith was picked up but the swordsgirl and they both booked it to the raising ramp. The recording ended with the engines firing and the now stolen ship tilting like a drunk was at the wheel before spinning through the blasted open bay doors.

“Orders, General?” Cody called, the deliberate click of his armor as he turned to face Obi-Wan brought the Jedi out of his fugue.

“We need to alert the Council. If the Seperatists are creating clones of their own-” Clones that obviously didn’t follow orders, “-and Force sensitive ones at that, this war just got a lot more complicated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous week was extremely stressful, didn't get half the stuff I wanted done. This nonsense is the result of that and binging Star Wars fic to self soothe. Please be aware that while I have seen the original trilogy and prequels, I have never actually read the books. I tried to watch the clone wars TV series but never really got into it. I do however greatly enjoy the fanfic set in that time.
> 
> Also I am vaguely aware that Palpatine ends up making force sensitive clones of some dude and sending him to hunt Jedi or something so... Army of Force Sensitive Assassins Clones. The Assassins are all pretty much assuming that all the test tube babies are former Assassins. There are actually a few legit Sith Lords in the bunch, but they aren't going to kick up a fuss while they still have their baby teeth. Poor Obi-Wan just got dragged along for the ride as he left a bunch of DNA samples on Bandomeer.
> 
> Also, as part of the program to try and short cut the training and caring for babies the scientists were using an Animus 25.0 to make the kids experience their donors lives. So clone-obi thinks he is the original Obi.
> 
> And I'm just going to leave you with the mental picture I can't get out of my head: Gangly pre-teen Altair channeling force lightning along his hands/forearms in a sheath to go hand-to-hand against a light saber wielder.


	12. It's All About Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sect of Isu went underground and evolved into Vampires to escape the Solar Flare. 16 year old runaway Desmond gets adopted by them. Too bad no one told Abstergo that.

Desmond hasn’t eaten in… a while. The hunger gnaws at the back of his throat, his stomach cramps, and even the damn Animus can’t make the need go away. Not really. He hasn’t touched the sandwiches they bring him, and the one time he did eat under the blonde’s gaze it all came back up after she left. The shakes are a little better -he’s meant for a liquid diet, after all- but he can’t get much out of them. A little iron, a little protein, but it’s all so processed and _lifeless._

He brought it on himself, really.

His mentor was always saying, eat sparingly but _eat often_. He’d balked, because it was just… it was too similar to that life. Too fake. And Mentor wasn’t his father, was nothing like Bill, he liked Mentor and he owed her his life but…

Desmond’s eyes snap open, swallowing back copious amounts of saliva as he moves half in instinct and half in memories. The blonde doesn’t get a chance to say his name, can’t say anything as he pushes her to the ground by her neck. She claws at him, her eyes as wide as a summer sky, and he pins the offending appendage above her own head. He can feel her pulse under his fingers.

His gums itch.

He inhales, mouth wide, and fuck if a week of faded memories and long dried blood hadn’t been torture enough-

He licks at the still damp drops on her shirt, shuddering, the memories within are spares and scattered but telling.

_Hit them, Miss Stillman, it needs to be authentic._

-Desmond growls, talons growing, and he knows. He knows by the blood echoes his mortal kin left behind that no amount of bleach could erase. He knows it by the traitorous tattoo beating away in her chest.

A flex of fingers and flesh splits. Ambrosia fills the air and he dips his face to her neck, eager and desperate.

He had never fed so deeply. He had never wanted to.

Desmond wonders if this was how it started for all the rest. Desperation. Starvation. But she’s not innocent and the world is black and white. He’s only vaguely aware as the door opens again, blood drunk and far from sated, but even if he still looks sixteen and scrawny he’s stronger than he’s ever been.

He grins when he moves, secondary set descending, because they have no idea. For all that they think they know, for all that have done, the Templars have forgotten their purpose.

The First Civilization never died out.

They just went underground, where it was safe and dark.

They _evolved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this silly idea that part of the Templars founding ideals was to hunt Vampires? But they drifted from that and became all about magical artifacts.
> 
> And, like, while Minnie and friends were doing one thing over in the Europe landmass there was another group in South America that was like... Why don't we just fuck with our own genetics? But keep it on the down low, because Posidon will through a hissy fit. So they were these blood drinking badasses, collecting memories and sharing them, their priests were all on the up and up with the 12-21-20 end of the world... and then shit happened. I don't know.


End file.
